He saw Jesse’s face blanch and her eyes grow wide. As if she cared.
Anger at her response spurred him on. ‘My sister had—has special needs. She was deprived of oxygen at birth, and as a result has been mildly brain-damaged all her life. When my father died and my mother became ill she was only eight. She was terrified, so I had to try to keep things as constant as possible. Keeping her routine the same, including her meals, was part of that process. She’s slightly autistic too, so any change in her routine was inordinately more threatening to her than to another person with the same needs … though she’s much better now.’
Because, Luc reflected, he could now afford the best round-the-clock care and support.
Jesse’s voice was husky, and it had an immediate effect on Luc’s body. ‘I’m sorry. It must have been a tough time.’
‘The toughest,’ he agreed grimly.
Suddenly he felt very exposed, sitting here and telling Jesse Moriarty, of all people, about the most cataclysmic time of his life, when all his anger and rage had coalesced into a lifelong ambition to see justice meted out.
‘So how is it that you can’t cook? I take it that burnt toast is just the tip of the iceberg?’
JESSE felt very vulnerable all of a sudden, and wondered if Luc had just furnished her with a fake story. But then she recalled the intensity on his face and in his eyes and she had to believe him—even though she didn’t like the sympathy he’d evoked within her.
She looked down at the blackened remains on her plate and found herself saying, ‘My mother died when I was nine. She was a brilliant cook, but she hadn’t started to teach me yet … She kept saying she would but there never seemed to be time. She was so busy …’ Jesse trailed off remembering her harried and stressed mother, whose face would be red and sweaty as she struggled to put together a meal for one of her father’s dinner parties with the usual little or no notice.
One time when something had gone wrong he’d come downstairs, flushed in the face with drink, and slapped her mother so hard that she’d fallen over the kitchen table, bringing pots and plates to the floor, waking Jesse up.
Feeling seriously disorientated at having remembered that, Jesse forced it from her mind and said lightly, ‘And then I just never learnt … I was terrible at home economics at school.’
‘But brilliant at maths and computer sciences?’
Jesse glanced at Luc and shrugged minutely. ‘They made more sense to me than sewing or baking.’ She had lost herself in numbers and algorithms far more easily than the more nurturing classes.
‘What about your father?’
Jesse forced her face to stay blank, not to respond. Tightly she said, ‘My mother was a single parent; I never knew my father.’
She hadn’t really. Not in the traditional sense. She’d always been the unwanted reminder downstairs. Hidden away. Until she’d had the temerity to come out and risk his wrath for the second time in her life. And that had had dire consequences.
Luc was moving and Jesse glanced up, a little disorientated to find that they’d been conversing so easily. He was heaping leftovers of egg and salmon onto his plate. He glanced at her and she felt breathless.
‘Are you sure you don’t want any?’
Jesse shook her head vigorously, realising that they’d gone way off track, sitting here talking relatively companionably. When Luc came back to sit down Jesse stood up and took her plate over to the sink to wash it. She felt prickly all over and, most betrayingly of all, as if she might cry.
Without saying anything to Luc she left the kitchen, walking as nonchalantly as she could, horribly aware that he might be looking at her. Only when she was around the corner and had ducked into the empty study that had so incensed him the day before did she breathe out shakily.
She walked to the window and looked over the stunning view of the garden at the side of the house. Crossing her arms over her chest, she told herself that she would have to be very careful not to trust this more civil side of Luc Sanchis. Or be moved by his stories of a difficult childhood. Her heart felt funny when she visualised him taking care of his vulnerable sister.
Jesse had to remember that he would be working tirelessly for a way to get off this island before he lost his chance to save O’Brien. Undoubtedly he was up to something, and she’d be the biggest fool to forget that for a second.
That evening Luc was sitting in a chair on the terrace outside the kitchen. He’d just eaten a perfectly prepared steak with Béarnaise sauce and a salad, and was washing it down with a robust Merlot. He had to concede, much to his chagrin, that this enforced doing nothing wasn’t entirely unwelcome. It had been a long time since he’d had no pressure on his time and energy. And it had been a long time since he’d indulged in cooking for himself. He’d forgotten how much he liked it.
He scowled faintly. Although he hated not being in control. When he’d watched Jesse saunter so nonchalantly from the kitchen that morning he’d wanted to send a cup flying after her to smash against the wall. To smash through that brittle shell that seemed to surround her all the time, making him want to delve underneath.
She made him feel all sorts of things, and he hated to acknowledge that anger at his kidnapping wasn’t usually the uppermost emotion.
He heard a noise now and turned his head to see her in the kitchen. She’d been avoiding him all day. When he thought back to their conversation earlier he got the distinct impression that just as he’d spilled his guts far more than he’d intended so had she.
He hadn’t missed the way she’d tightened all over at the mention of her father. Clearly that was a red button he should push again, seeking any means to unnerve her.
She’d obviously not seen him out on the terrace, and he sat back even more and observed her as she opened the fridge and took out the bowl of Béarnaise sauce he’d made. She lifted it to sniff and he found himself smiling at her wrinkled-nose expression. Curious as to what she would do with the raw materials in the fridge, he almost felt sorry for her when he saw her admit defeat and take out a yoghurt.
She had to be starving. Nothing had been moved from the fridge at lunchtime. Luc didn’t like the feeling of protectiveness that came over him, and quashed it ruthlessly. A woman had inspired that in him before, and it had nearly cost him his burgeoning reputation and career. He certainly wouldn’t give in to it here and now, with someone infinitely more dangerous.
Silently he stood up and went to stand with a shoulder propped against the open patio door, his eyes on the petite figure as she stood and ate the yoghurt.
‘So, where have you been hiding all day? I missed you.’
Jesse went rigid as that deep, mocking voice washed over her and snuck in somewhere very private and vulnerable. She forced herself to be as cool as a cucumber before she turned around to face her nemesis. It was laughable, but right now she felt far more the victim than Luc Sanchis.
She could scent the tantalising aroma of something he’d cooked in the air. No doubt he must relish the thought of her starving.
He was standing with arms folded across his chest, one shoulder propped against the door. He jerked his head back to where he’d been eating. ‘I made a steak. I didn’t think to ask you if you wanted one. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t think the prisoner usually cares much about feeding the kidnapper.’
Jesse flushed and willed down the wave of hunger that almost knocked her sideways. She could well imagine that his steak had been as delicious as his breakfast. Churlishly she wondered